Quincas Borba (Library of Latin America) (25 page)

“Is the messenger there?”

“He left already. How pretty, ma’am!” Sofia closed the box and finished putting her shoes on. She remained sitting there for some time, remembering past things. Then she got up, thinking:

“That man worships me.”

She tried to get dressed, but as she passed in front of the mirror, she stopped for a few moments. She enjoyed contemplating herself, her fine figure, her bare arms, up and down, her eyes themselves as she contemplated. She was twenty-nine. She thought that she looked the same as when she was twenty-five and she wasn’t mistaken. With her corset tightened and laced, before the mirror she arranged her breasts lovingly and let her magnificent bosom spread out. Then she remembered to see how the diamond would look on her. She took the necklace out and put it around her neck. Perfect. She turned from left to right and back again, went close, moved back, turned the dressingroom
light up brighter. Perfect. She closed the jewel case and put it away.

“That man worships me,” she repeated.

“Hell probably be there,” Rubião thought on his way to dinner in Flamengo. “I doubt that he’s given her a better present than I have.”

Carlos Maria was indeed there, chatting between one of the Alagoas committeewomen and Maria Benedita. There weren’t many guests. The plan had been to limit and to choose. Major Siqueira wasn’t there, nor was his daughter, nor the ladies and gentlemen Rubião had met at that other dinner in Santa Teresa. Some ladies from the Alagoas committee could be seen. The bank director was there again—the one who’d visited the cabinet minister—with his wife and daughters, another important banker, an English businessman, a deputy, a judge, a counselor, some capitalists, and not many more people.

Even though obviously in her glory, Sofia forgot about the others in an instant when she saw Rubião enter the room and walk toward her. Either from some change or from not seeing him, to her he seemed to have a different air, a firm step, head held high, the complete opposite, in a word, of his former humbled and reduced appearance. Sofia shook his hand firmly and whispered her thanks. At the table she had him sit next to her, having on her other side the woman who was president of the committee. Rubião was taking in everything with a superior air. The quality of the guests didn’t impress him, nor did the ceremonious atmosphere or the lushness of the table. None of that dazzled him. Even Sofia’s personal care, although pleasant, didn’t stupefy him the way it used to. For her part, her attention was more attentive and her eyes exceptionally tender and friendly. Rubião looked for Carlos Maria. There he was, between the same two women as in the parlor—Maria Benedita and the Alagoas committeewoman. He could see that he was paying attention only to them. He wasn’t looking at Sofia nor she at him.

“Maybe they’re covering up,” he thought.

It seemed to him that as they got up from the table, they exchanged glances—but the general movement of the group might have misled him, and Rubião didn’t lend any great importance
to the observation. Sofia hastened to take his arm. As they walked she told him:

“I’ve been waiting for you ever since that day, and you never came back here again. It was my right to demand it of you so I could explain myself. We’ll talk later.”

A short time after Rubião went to the study where the smokers were. He listened in silence, his eyes wandering. When the others left, Rubião remained behind alone, half–lying on a leather sofa without thinking. His imagination was doing its duty, a little sluggish now—perhaps because he’d eaten too much. Outside, the after-dinner guests were arriving. The house was filling up, the clamor of conversation swelled, but our friend did not come down out of his beautiful dreams. The very sound of the piano, which made everyone fall silent, didn’t bring him down to earth. But a rustle of silks coming into the room made him rise up quickly, awake.

“There you are,” Sofia said, “hiding in here to get away from the boredom. You don’t even want to hear good music. I thought you’d left. I’ve come to have it out with you.”

And without further ado, because she didn’t have a minute to spare, she told him what we know about the letter found in the garden in Botafogo. She reminded him that before opening it, she’d asked that he open it himself and read it. What better proof of innocence? The word came out quickly, seriously, properly, and emotional. There was a moment when her eyes grew moist. She wiped them, and they were red. Rubião took her hand and saw a tear still, a small tear, running down to the corner of her mouth. He swore that, yes, he believed everything. What was that crying all about? Sofia wiped her eyes again and held out her thankful hand.

“I’ll see you later,” she said.

The piano was still playing. Rubião made note of that circumstance. While they were listening to the playing no one would come in on them.

“But I can’t be away for so long,” Sofia put in. “Besides, I’ve got to give some instructions. I’ll see you later.”

“Wait, listen,” Rubião insisted.

Sofia stopped.

“Listen. Let me say something to you, and, I don’t know, it may be the last time …”

“The last time?”

“Who knows? It may be the last time. I couldn’t care less if the man lives or dies, but I might find him here sometime, and I don’t feel like fighting.”

“You’re going to meet him every day. Didn’t Cristiano tell you what’s going on yet? He’s going to marry Maria Benedita.”

Rubião took a step backward.

“They’re getting married,” she continued. “It’s really startling because it came out when we were least expecting it—or they were very good at hiding it—or it was something that came over them suddenly. They’re getting married. Maria Benedita told me a story that was confirmed by somebody else. But the story’s always the same in the end. They’re in love and that’s that. They’re going to get married and rather soon. When he spoke to Cristiano, Cristiano replied that it depended on me . . . As if I were her mother! I immediately gave my consent, and I hope that they’ll be happy. He seems to be a fine young man. She’s an excellent girl. They’ve got to be happy, it has to be that way. And it’s a good bit of business, did you know that? He has his father’s and his mother’s holdings. Maria Benedita has nothing in terms of money, but she has the education I’ve given her. You must remember that when she came to live with me she was a shy little thing. She knew practically nothing. I was the one who educated her. My aunt deserved everything, and she does, too. So, it’s true, they’re getting married very soon. Didn’t you see how they’ve been together all the time tonight? There’s been no official notice, but close friends of the family know about it.”

For someone in such a hurry it was too long a speech. Sofia realized it a little too late. She repeated to Rubião that she’d see him later, that she had to go back to the parlor. The piano had stopped. A discreet rumble of applause and conversation could be heard.

T
hey were going to marry? But how is it, then, that… ? Maria Benedita—it was Maria Benedita who was marrying Carlos Maria. But then Carlos Maria … He was understanding now; it had all been a mistake, confusion. What seemed to have been going on with one person was going on with another, and that’s how people can arrive at slander and crime.

That was what Rubião was thinking as he came out into the dining room where the butlers were clearing the dinner table. And he continued, walking the whole length of the parlor. “Just imagine! And Palha wanted me to marry the cousin, not knowing that fate had a different groom for her. The young man’s not ugly, much better-looking than she. Alongside Sofia, Maria Benedita isn’t much or anything at all. But she’s pleasant all the same … They’re getting married and soon … Will the wedding be sumptuous? It probably will. Palha’s a bit better off now …” and Rubião cast his eyes over the furniture, the porcelain, the crystal, the draperies. “It’s got to be sumptuous. And, besides, the groom is rich …” Rubião thought about the coach and the horses that would pull it. He’d seen a superb team in Engenho Velho a few days before that was just right. He would order another pair like them, no matter what the price. He had to give the bride a present too. As he was thinking about her, he saw her enter the room.

“Where’s Cousin Sofia?” she asked Rubião

“I don’t know. She was here a minute ago.”

And as he saw her ready to move off, he asked for a word with her and for her not to get angry. Maria Benedita waited. Without hesitation he gave her his congratulations. He knew that she was going to get married … Maria Benedita turned quite red and murmured that he shouldn’t tell anybody. There was no servant around then. Rubião grabbed her hand and squeezed it between his hands.

“I’m like a member of the family,” he said. “You deserve happiness, and I hope that you’ll get it.”

A bit frightened, Maria Benedita pulled her hand free, but in order not to upset him, she smiled. None of that was necessary.
He was delighted. We know the girl wasn’t pretty, but she looked beautiful from the strength of the good wishes. Nature seemed to have placed its most delicate ideas in her. Smiling too, Rubião went on:

“It was your cousin who told me. She swore me to secrecy. I won’t say a word ahead of time. But what can I tell you? You’re good and you deserve everything. No need to lower your eyes, there’s nothing shameful about marriage. Come, lift up your head and smile.”

Maria Benedita cast her radiant eyes on him.

“That’s the way!” Rubião applauded. “What’s wrong with confessing to a friend? Let me tell you the truth. I think you’ll be happy, but I feel that he’ll be even happier. No? You just see if I’m not telling the truth. He’ll tell you what he feels himself, and if he’s sincere, you’ll see that I’m only prophesying. I know quite well that there’s no scale to weigh feelings on. All I’m trying to say is that you’re a beautiful and good young lady … Go, get on with you. If not, I’ll keep on telling truths, and you’ll be blushing all the more …”

It was true. Maria Benedita was blushing with pleasure as she listened to Rubião’s words. At home she’d found acquiescence, nothing more. Carlos Maria wasn’t that tender. He loved her circumspectly. He spoke to her of marital bliss as if it were a tribute he was going to receive from fate—a payment owed, complete and certain. Nor was it necessary to treat her otherwise for her to adore him above all things in this world. Rubião repeated his goodbye and stood looking at her as he would at a daughter. He watched her go off like that, crossing the room, lively and satisfied—so different from the way he’d found her at other times—to disappear through one of the doors. He couldn’t hold back these words:

“A beautiful and good young lady!”

T
he story of Maria Benedita’s wedding is brief. And even though Sofia might find it common, it’s worth saying so. It has already been admitted that if it hadn’t been for the epidemic in Alagoas, there might not have been any wedding, from which it can be concluded that catastrophes are useful, even necessary. There are more than enough examples, but a little story I heard as a child will suffice, and I shall give it to you here in a couple of lines. Once upon a time there was a cottage burning by the side of the road. The owner—a poor ragged wretch of a woman—was weeping over her disaster, sitting on the ground a few steps away. Suddenly, a drunken man happened along. He saw the fire, saw the woman, and asked her if that was her house.

“It’s mine, yes, sir, and all I have in this world.

“Do you mind if I light my cigar from it?”

The priest who told me this certainly must have edited the original text. You don’t have to be drunk to light your cigar on somebody else’s misfortune. Good Father Chagas!—his name was Chagas—a priest who was more than good and who in that way instilled in me for many years the consoling idea that no one in his right mind will profit from the ills of others, not to mention the respect the drunkard had for the principle of property—to the point of not lighting his cigar without first asking permission of the owner of the ruins. All consoling ideas. Good Father Chagas!

F
arewell, Father Chagas! I’m getting to the story of the wedding. That Maria Benedita loved Carlos Maria is something that was seen or sensed ever since that ball on the Rua dos Arcos where he and Sofia waltzed so much. We saw her the next morning,
all ready to go to the country. Her cousin calmed her down with the promise that she was arranging a fiancé for her. Maria Benedita thought it was to be the waltzer from the night before and stayed on, waiting. She didn’t confess anything to Sofia—first out of shame and later so as not to lose the effect of the news when Sofia revealed the person’s name. If she were to confess it right away, it might happen that the other woman would slacken in her task, and it would be a lost cause. Let’s dismiss all this, a girl’s petty calculations.

The epidemic in Alagoas had come about in the meantime. Sofia organized the committee, which brought with it new relationships for the Palha family. Included among the women forming one of the subcommittees, Maria Benedita worked with all of them, but she gained the especial esteem of one of them, Dona Fernanda, the wife of a deputy. Dona Fernanda was a bit over thirty, was jovial, expansive, ruddy, and robust. She’d been born in Porto Alegre, had married a lawyer from Alagoas, the deputy from a different province now, and, according to rumor, about to become a minister of state. Her husband’s origins were the reason for her joining the committee. And it was a good move, because she brought in donations like a field commander, not the least bit shy and accepting no refusals. Carlos Maria, who was her cousin, went to call on her the moment she arrived in Rio de Janeiro. He found her even more beautiful than in 1865, the last time he’d seen her, and it could well have been true. He carne to the conclusion that the air in the south was made to fortify people, double their charms, and he made the promise to go there to live out his days.

“You must go there because I can arrange a marriage for you,” she said. “I know a girl in Pelotas who’s a
bijou
, and she’ll only marry a man from the capital.”